"Blast Lanky!" said Alec, scowling.
"You can't brag like Lanky Tim!" retorted Annie.
"No, I give him best at that! Dang him, if I don't give him pepper before I go to bed this night."
"Or mustard," said Annie.
"He may need a poultice."
Silence reigned for awhile, broken only by the loud tick of the clock on the mantelpiece and the drip of the honey. How long this state of things would have lasted no one knows. Just at this acute stage a loud scream was heard from the front of the homestead. A rushing of feet and banging of doors followed. Annie and Alec jumped up, made for the door, ran round the dwelling-house to the end of the verandah, and listened.
CHAPTER II
Woorong station was owned by an old Scotchman named McKeel. He was of medium height, red-haired, somewhat bald, with blue eyes, aquiline nose, large mouth, and an inquiring face, sprinkled with freckles, like patches of clay on a ploughed field; wrinkled with the chiselling of many years and the rubs of fortune.